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12:15 AM. One hour, he thinks, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. One hour early. Enough time to make sure Doc gets the message.
He bursts from the car, the crunch of gravel under his sneakers loud in the pre-dawn silence. The mall looms before him, a sprawling silhouette against the bruised purple of the sky. Streetlights cast long, distorted shadows, making the familiar landscape feel alien and menacing. A biting wind whips around him, carrying the faint, metallic scent of rain. Marty shoves his hands into his pockets, his gaze darting around, searching for any sign of Doc. He needs to find a good vantage point, a place to hide and watch, but also a place where Doc can see him when the time is right.
He circles the perimeter, his eyes scanning for the tell-tale glint of Doc’s van. His mind races, replaying the conversation from just an hour ago – well, an hour from Doc’s perspective. He can still hear his own desperate pleas, the urgency in his voice as he explained, as best he could, the impossible truth about the future and the Libyans. Doc, wide-eyed and skeptical at first, had slowly, painstakingly, begun to process it. The initial tearing of the letter, the dismissal of paradoxes, then the dawning comprehension. It had been a scramble, a chaotic download of information about bulletproof vests, stage blood, and a carefully choreographed deception. Doc, ever the showman, had taken to the idea with maniacal glee once he understood the necessity.
Finally, the familiar hum of Doc’s van breaks the silence. Marty tenses, his muscles coiled, ready. The battered Volkswagen pulls into the lot, its headlights cutting through the gloom, illuminating the desolate expanse. Doc, wild-haired and manic as ever, leaps out, pulling a complicated-looking control panel from the back. He’s talking to himself, his voice a low, excited murmur, completely oblivious to Marty’s presence, but completely aware of the upcoming performance.
Marty holds his breath, hunkered down behind a row of overgrown shrubs, their brittle branches scratching lightly at his jacket. He can see Doc clearly, the subtle tension in his shoulders, and the way his eyes keep darting towards the service entrance, the pre-arranged entry point for the attackers. A sudden, blinding flash of light erupts from behind the mall’s service entrance. The roar of an engine tears through the night. The black Volkswagen bus, an ominous leviathan, screeches into view, its tires spitting gravel. Marty’s jaw tightens. Here we go, he thinks, bracing himself.
The bus barrels toward Doc, its high beams momentarily silhouetting the scientist against the harsh glare. Marty sees Doc’s head snap up, his eyes widening in recognition, then a practiced terror. The rear door of the van slides open with a pneumatic hiss. Figures emerge, dark shapes clutching assault rifles. A volley of gunfire erupts, shattering the night. The sharp, percussive cracks echo across the lot, punctuated by the metallic clang of bullets impacting metal. Doc screams, a guttural cry of pain and surprise, and collapses to the asphalt. His control panel clatters beside him, wires sparking.
Marty’s vision tunnels, but not from shock. He’s looking for the subtle cues, the practiced fall, the way Doc arranges himself to maximize the illusion. He sees the dark stain blooming on Doc’s white radiation suit, but his mind registers the shiny, almost iridescent quality of the fake blood. He notes the quick, furtive glance Doc throws towards Marty’s hiding spot, a tiny nod of confirmation. The Libyans, stoic and unfeeling, their faces obscured by the shadows, their weapons still aimed.
They climb back into the van with chilling efficiency. The engine roars, tires squeal, and the black bus speeds away, disappearing into the night as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the acrid smell of exhaust and the ringing silence of aftershock. Marty waits, counting the seconds. He watches Doc’s form on the ground, still and silent. The air hangs heavy, thick with the lingering scent of gunpowder and the chill of the early morning. He hears the distant, fading hum of the Libyan van.
Enough time has passed. The coast is clear. He stands up, brushing leaves from his jeans. He takes a deep breath, then starts walking towards Doc, slowly at first, then picks up his pace. He raises his hands, bringing them together with a sharp, distinct clap.
The sound is loud in the silent parking lot, a signal.
Doc stirs, a groan escaping his lips. He pushes himself up, slowly, painfully, his hands pressing against his chest. He’s still wearing the radiation suit, but the dark stain is still there, and now, knowing, Marty sees the fake, chemical sheen to it. Doc lifts his head, his eyes scanning the empty parking lot. He runs a hand through his wild hair, then his gaze locks onto Marty. A slow smile spreads across his face, a glimmer of his usual eccentric brilliance returning.
Marty approaches, a mixture of amusement and immense relief washing over him. He stops a few feet away, watching Doc, who is now grinning broadly, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Did they buy it?” Doc asks, his voice hoarse but undeniably alive.
He reaches into the chest of his radiation suit and, with a flourish, tears away a section. Beneath it, nestled against his chest, is a thick, Kevlar-plated vest, the kind military personnel wear. And beneath that, taped carefully to the vest, are several small, plastic bags filled with what looks suspiciously like stage blood. One of them has burst, creating the realistic-looking splotch that had fooled everyone, except for the one person who knew the plan. Doc winks at Marty. Marty shakes his head, a wry grin on his face.
“They bought it, Doc. Hook, line, and sinker. You were Oscar-worthy.”
Doc chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that morphs into a full-blown cackle. He removes the bulletproof vest with a grunt, tossing it aside, then carefully peels off the remaining fake blood packets, revealing his perfectly intact, albeit slightly bruised, chest.
“Marty, my boy,” Doc says, pushing himself to his feet, a triumphant glint in his eye. He wipes a smear of the fake blood from his chin with the back of his hand. “See? Preparation is key! A little theatricality, my friend, goes a long way. Always be prepared for the unexpected!” He gestures toward the DeLorean with a flourish. “And now, Marty, we have a very important appointment with destiny!”
Marty grins, a genuine, wide grin. “Yeah, I guess we do.”
He can still scarcely believe they pulled it off, even with Doc in on the secret. The memory of his initial despair, seeing Doc fall, still sends a shiver down his spine. But now, it’s replaced with a profound sense of relief and, oddly enough, a grudging admiration for Doc’s utterly insane genius. He really is one of a kind.
“So, you’re good?” Marty asks, just to be sure, scanning Doc for any genuine injuries.
Doc brushes a speck of dust from his elbow. “Splendid! A mere flesh wound, as they say in the pictures. The vest absorbed the impact beautifully. Now, about this plutonium…” He gestures animatedly towards the trunk of his van.